Returning to Life
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Playing the greatest game yields the largest consequences. Post-Great Game, pre-Scandal. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Returning to Life**

The gun is pointed at the bombs. The bombs are closest to Moriarty. However, there's enough of them to blow the whole damn pool if Sherlock actually shoots it...

Oh, God, Sherlock.

John can figure out that he's trembling because of the fear of the unknown. The fact of almost certain death looming in front of him does not push his body to a state of calm. However, John thinks that part of him is shaking for Sherlock, too, because Sherlock doesn't show fear, because Sherlock's in imminent danger, too, and John hopes with all the, unlikely, hope that he has that Sherlock will be alright.

It's half his fault, really. If he had been paying more attention, if he hadn't fallen into a trap that Moriarty had set. Sherlock would say, uncharacteristically, that it wasn't his fault. But God, he just _wishes_.

It's better to do this, to take out the threat. John is trained in this area: take out the enemy at whatever cost. But he hasn't been taking over by this trembling in a long time.

His eyes flicker to Sherlock again briefly and he can see the resolution in his mind. John resists the inane urge to run and duck for cover; if Sherlock was going to blow himself, John was determined to be there.

His eyes travel to the gun again, he watches as Sherlock's fingers tightens on the trigger, begins to pull. John's breath picks up again; he feels as though, if he doesn't lose consconsciousness soon, he's going to vomit. Seeing as how he doesn't want to do either of those things... well, he just wishes that Sherlock would get on with-

The gunshot tears through his hearing; he then does something that he hadn't thought that he would have the courage to do. But he has a lot more courage than he thinks.

He lunges at Sherlock, crashing into him. Their combined weight topples them into the pool, and John hopes to God that Sherlock can swim or at least, decides to take a deep breath before they hit the water.

Somewhere around him, he's aware that there is a _lot_ of hot, and even still the pain, and his hearing's gone because everything has gotten too loud, too supersonic...

... and he can't breathe but his fingers are still locked around Sherlock's blazer and there's blood in the pool and debris and he can't _breathe..._

* * *

**Welcome to my new multi-chapter! Since _Unforeseen Circumstances _is at a close (almost) I decided to work on something else. My mind needs to stay occupied...**

**By the bye! This -Points up- is not what it seems. Which, I say that, and you can probably guess why, but it's not the same as all the other _remake-of-The-Great-Game_ fics there are. I promise.**

**Review on! Although there isn't much... I'd love for all my _U.C._ fans to come here for their _Sherlock _fix and get some new fans along the way!**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

John awoke with a start, gasping for breath. His fingers were empty; for a moment, a panicked moment, he felt around for Sherlock. But, John was safe in his own bedroom and Sherlock was probably downstairs, probably pacing about and muttering to himself.

John shivered as he sat up, his fingers knitting into the blankets. God... He could still feel the heat on his skin, still feel his ears ringing. Dreams... dreams were more dangerous than real life.

Previously, he and Sherlock had been in the same situation as his dream. In the pool, targets on them, a gun on the bombs. Sherlock had been all too ready to pull the trigger and John had been ready to face possible death. He was sure that they had both been nervous, both scared, although Sherlock wouldn't really admit it.

But then.

But then, Moriarty's phone had gone off (_Staying Alive_, how ironic) and he suddenly became all too interested in whatever was being said. And John and Sherlock were safe. No gunshots. No explosions. No blood, no debris, no... anything.

John shivered again, rubbing his hands over his arms before he stood. It was the first night after their near death experience, so John should have expected the nightmares. In reality, a part of him had. He had sat up for the longest time possible, slumped in his chair with a can of beer held tightly between his fingers. Sherlock had been pacing relentlessly from window to window, occasionally picking up his violin and playing a few notes. Their silence had been deafeaning.

John padded out of his bedroom quietly, his bare feet nearing silence on the hardwood floor. The silence... The silence was killing him. He wanted to talk. He wanted to hear Sherlock's voice, he wanted to hear his _own_ voice, just to prove that they were still alive. But Sherlock wasn't in the mood to talk and John didn't know what to say. _Hey, I'm glad we're alive, we might get blown up some other day, though_ wasn't entirely pleasant, even if it was true. Moriarty was still out there.

The stairs creaked as he went down, although he was sure that Sherlock knew he was awake. Part of him thought the detective _was_ asleep by the time that John had stepped into the living room. Sherlock was silent now, but he was sitting on the couch, fingers steepled. John would have continued to think that he'd fallen asleep sitting up if Sherlock's eyes hadn't been open.

The detective looked different, though.

He looked exhausted. Absolutely exhausted. His elbow were resting on his knees, his fingers steepled in front of his nose. His eyes were fixed on the floor below. They were glassy, far-off, slightly red with exhaustion apparent in them.

"Sherlock...?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered to him before he dropped his hands, sitting up. "You've woken up."

John nodded slightly. "Have you been asleep?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Mind palace."

"Ah..." John paused in the doorway, hand on the wall. "Sherlock, you need to sleep. You know that, right?"

Sherlock didn't give his usual response, only steepled his fingers under his chin. John shook his head slightly before heading into the kitchen.

The cold was still lingering, even though he was somewhat sure that it wasn't cold in the flat. A cuppa would have solved the problem, but he didn't need the caffeine, so his mind was prompting him towards warm milk. He cleared Sherlock's clutter off the stove and grabbed a pot, pouring the last of the milk into it. Now he was going to need to go to the store tomorrow...

A slight laugh escaped his lips at the thought; they had almost been blown up and now John was telling himself he had to go buy milk. Such a difference in tone.

When the milk had heated, he grabbed two teacups off the counter and, making sure they weren't housing some unheard of chemical, poured the milk into them. He dropped the pot into stove admist the other dishes and experiments there, opening the cupboard to pull out the pack of biscuits that Mrs. Hudson had bought them Monday.

After setting the teacups onto their saucers, he set a few biscuits on each saucer before tossing the package back into the cupboard. He picked up both teacups precariously and walked back into the living room without managing to spill a drop. Feeling rather accomplished of himself, he offered one of the teacups to Sherlock. Sherlock didn't take it.

John sighed and set it down on the coffee table, taking a sip of his own milk afterwards. They were sinking back into silence again. John felt his skin start to crawl. He couldn't handle this silence, he couldn't handle this _nothing-happened_ vibe.

He sank onto the couch next to Sherlock, a little closer than he normally would have sat next to the consulting detective. He just, he seriously, needed to prove the fact that they were fine. Sherlock didn't notice or, if he did, he didn't look up.

He nibbled on his biscuit silently, staring into the kitchen. It was all so anticlimatic, this.

"Thanks, by the way," he said aloud, breaking the silence and breaking his policy not to speak about the pool thing. Sherlock glanced sideways at him. "For... for playing along. For not shooting him or something."

Sherlock frowned before looking away again, not saying anything.

John returned to his milk and biscuits without another word.

* * *

John woke up with a sore back and a stiff neck. It took him a few minutes to realize that he was still sitting up on the couch, albeit leaning against the armrest a bit. He sat up slightly, freezing when he felt pressure on his lap. He glanced down quickly to find Sherlock's head plopped onto his lap, his dark curls making him seem more pale than usual in the morning light. His eyes were closed and his breathing was evened out, prompting John to believe that he was still asleep.

Overlooking the fact that he should have been disgruntled at his flatmate having had fallen asleep half on his lap, John looked down at Sherlock's face. There were still bags under the detective's eyes, leaving John to wonder when he had gone into unconsciousness. Probably not until the very early hours of the morning and it was only six-thirty as of now. Stupid detective. He needed to sleep more. Especially after last night. _Especially_ after last night.

There had been a moment during the previous night's events where Sherlock had gotten this _look_, when John had walked out into the pool. This look of betrayal. The look of hurt. Like someone had just crushed every little hope that Sherlock had ever had. He had looked so vulnerable, for a half second; there was the simple proof that Sherlock was indeed human.

He was so childish. He was so childish in the sense that he didn't understand compassion or that he didn't understand that the world didn't revolve around him. Except, he was starting to. In the two, two and a half months that John had known him, he had started to change, just the slightest bit. And last night at the pool, Sherlock had really shown it. Especially after he had ripped the jacket off of him, after the Syntax had been removed.

John sighed quietly, setting his hands on his lap where Sherlock's head wasn't. He was resisting the urge to comb his fingers through Sherlock's hair, to ruffle it, or just... just something that was a creature comfort. That was something that he couldn't do, though, namely because Sherlock wasn't a child, younger than John but still not a child, and partially because it was just a bit embarrassing. If people saw them now, with Sherlock's head on John's lap...

He looked away from Sherlock, not moving even though his leg was asleep and his back was hurting and he needed the loo because those things were less important than Sherlock's rest right now.

His empty teacup was still sitting on the cluttered table, and John was surprised to find Sherlock's teacup empty as well, the biscuits gone. John smiled.

They stayed like this for at least ten minutes, John growing ever more anxious at the lack of mobility he had. At one point, Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled over onto his side, nuzzling his face somewhat into John's jumper.

"Sherlock..." John muttered condescendingly, shaking his head slightly. He was much surprised to get a reply.

"What?"

John's eyes snapped back to Sherlock. "You're awake? Why are you awake and still sleeping on me?" he demanded, although not in an angry way.

"Your jumper smells good and you're incredibly warm," came Sherlock's muffled reply. "Although, your thoughts are... irritating. Think less," Sherlock advised.

"Sherlock, I'm not a pillow!"

"You have been for the past four hours."

"I haven't had my leg asleep the past four hours and I haven't needed the loo the past four hours, Sherlock."

"It's a build-up of pressure, for both of those things, actually," Sherlock mumbled.

"I'm all for you sleeping, but sleep on the couch, not me!"

Sherlock sighed a heavy, long-suffering sigh, as if John was inconveniencing _him_, not the other way around, before he sat up. He carded his fingers through his hair, stretching his arms above his head.

John stood afterwards, pins and needles shooting up his legs. "Well, did you sleep well then?" he asked, stretching his own arms.

"Remarkably."

"Me, too," John replied, although it was more to himself. Sherlock surely didn't care. But, nonetheless, being with Sherlock... John had slept better than he had in a long time.

* * *

**Reuploaded this to say, this is now just going to be a twoshot. I didn't like where it was going. So. I'm sorry. But I hope you enjoyed it. [Even if they are a bit OOC here. But. They ****_are_**** off their game. Considering what just happened...]**

**Thanks!**


End file.
